over him and letting out his distinctive call of distress, I probably wouldn't have even noticed him at first because he was buried beneath several blankets, to the point that I could only see the top of his head. There was a suitcase sitting open near the couch along with a small black cosmetics-style bag. I saw a bottle of water along with an empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table and there appeared to be a couple of food wrappers lying on the floor. A quick glance at the fireplace showed it wasn't going. There was no ash beneath the grate and the logs I’d brought in the day before were sitting untouched in the fireplace.
Why hadn't the idiot started a fire? He clearly hadn't been able to get the generator going, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to set some logs sitting in a fireplace ablaze. Even if he’d been drinking—which, from the empty liquor bottle, it looked like he had been—he still should have managed to light a fire.
It was a question that would have to wait. I hurried to the couch and sat down on the coffee table. A sick feeling landed in my belly as the man didn't move despite Brewer's continued whining. Even when the dog pressed what I knew to be his cold nose against the man's temple, he didn't react. Had the guy drunk himself to death?
I felt like I was going to puke as I reached out a hand to test his skin. There had been one time when a tenant had died in his sleep in one of the cabins, so it wouldn't be my first experience with a dead body. But that didn't make it any less creepy or disturbing.
"Sir," I said softly just before my fingers pressed against the skin of what little of his forehead was exposed.
Warmth.
Warmth met my finger. I dropped my head and sucked in a deep breath. I shouldn't have been so relieved to know he was still among the living. I didn't let myself have too much time to dwell on any of it. Instead, I carefully peeled back the layers of blankets that were covering him.
"Sir," I repeated. "It's me, Gideon," I said before realizing he'd never even given me a chance to tell him my name the day before. "The caretaker."
He didn't respond other than to let out a little grunt.
"Sir, are you all right? Was there a problem with the generator?"
Instead of answering me, the guy swatted his hand at me, though the move was so weak he didn't actually make any kind of physical connection with me.
"Sir—" I began.
"G'way," he mumbled. He tried to swat at me again.
"Sir, I just need to know if the generator isn't working. I can fix it—"
"Way!" he shouted, though his voice sounded hoarse and there was no real power behind the word. But I wasn't a glutton for punishment. The guy was alive and well and still a jerk. And on top of that, his slurred words meant he was just drunk.
The cabin, though cold, wasn't an immediate danger. If the jackass lying in front of me preferred to bundle up in blankets rather than enjoy the luxury of heat, that was up to him.
I didn't bother telling him to call me if he needed anything as I stood up. I walked away, eyeing the fireplace as I went. Every instinct in me wanted to at least get it going for him, but then I remembered how he'd tried to push me away.
Fuck him, I growled silently to myself. The dick was on his own. As wrong as it felt to just leave him there like that, that was exactly what I did. When I reached the kitchen, I realized Brewer wasn't at my side. I whistled for him, but as the seconds passed, I didn't hear his nails click-clacking along the floor. "Brewer," I called and waited. I was rewarded with a high-pitched whine followed by Brewer's distinctive howl. I called the dog again but got the same exact response.
I hurried back to the living room only to find that Brewer was pawing at the man on the couch. "Brewer," I called sharply. While Mr. Parnell had never had an issue with me having Brewer and taking him to the cabins, if the asshole on the couch complained about the dog, I’d have no choice but to leave him at home when I went to the cabins. Not only would